• I didn't learn to ride a bicycle until I was twelve years old
  

• I am an ordained minister licensed to marry people in the state of Ohio and I will be marrying one of my best friends this coming Spring to his fiance
  

• The first book I really remember reading is Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls
  

• I often tear up while watching movies especially if they are about animals that die
  

• I have met and been inspired by both Sherman Alexie and Rick Moody

And now I get to tag five bloggers to create their own five things list and I am going to name: JD, Antimedia, Reverse_Vampyr, PurpleThink and Infidel753.

I proudly voted for Bush 43 twice but this administration has gotten completely out of hand.

American politics has a heartbeat and the emotion of our country runs very deep inside all of us. I believe it is within our abilities as citizens of this nation to do a collective gut check, lick our forefingers, stick them into the wind and ascertain which way it blows. Dylan said it first and today's weathermen are the Bill O'Reillys, the Keith Olbermans and the Chris Matthews of the world.

If we are honest with ourselves; we can all admit that during this past November's election, we saw the ruling mandate leak out of this presidency like air from a tire spiked with a five inch nail.

And if ever one needed proof that this administration is out of touch with reality, it's the recent press fervor over the President wanting to increase the size of the Army and Marine Corps. Folks, that ship has sailed.

Many make the argument that the historical occupation of Western nations rebuilding after an armed conflict took decades. But rebuilding infrastructure, like everything else in our world today, should and can be undertaken at the same light speed in which information and ambition travel.

Shit, if we can turn ten thousand acres of farm fields into a golf course community supported by both a Costco and a Wal-Mart in two years, surely we can secure the peace and rebuild infrastructure in a place where it already existed in five.

An administration with wisdom would pull the troops out when their function was completed.

An administration with brains would tell the world that our troops are coming home and that the all the cities and countries over there in the land of sand had better wise up and stop acting like 7th Century dopes duped by the written word and suppress their terrorist sub-cultures or else.

And an administration with balls would drop a thermonuclear bomb on the capital city of any country that allowed terrorist activity to fester into an attack on American citizens and load another one in the missile silo for the next bunch of stupid sons of a bitches dumb enough to fuck with a lion when he's cleaning his claws.

The War on Terror has become an atrocious display of corporate greed backed up by an unscrupulous spending-happy Congress and Lords of War military hardware manufacturers fueled by noble and patriotic soldiers and officers who are in danger of getting caught in a thick trap of their loyalty and honor.

I would never impugn the sacrifice that service men and women make for our country but Stephen Covey has a wonderful business analogy of people trying to make it through a jungle and frontline managers as the ones hacking through the underbrush while the true leaders are the ones who climb the tallest tree to survey the land and call down to the others, "Hey, we're in the wrong jungle." And the collective answer they get from the hacking managers is, "Shut up! We're making progress."

And I think the situation in the War on Terror is a lot like that--where the noble soldiers and officers are saying we're making progress and very likely are relative to their task at hand but We the people are ultimately responsible for determining if we are even in the right jungle.

And I think we're not only in the wrong jungle--we're in the wrong fucking desert.

What do you think? Holla!

NOTES:

• Picture by Jason

LINKS:

• Stop Calling Every Thing Blogs
  

• Article Title of the Day Goes to Fox News for This One: "Human Penis Cartoon Campaign Proves Effective in Spurring STD Testing for Gay, Bisexual Men"
  

• The Reason Why Widescreen is Better
  

• Company Logos and Their Meanings
  

• 72 Things Every Man Should Know About Fatherhood
  

• The Space Elevator Explained
  

• 521 Front Page Headlines In One Place
  

• House Panel Faults FBI in Oklahoma City Bombing Probe for Not Investigating "Other Suspects" Who Might Have Helped McVeigh and Nichols (read Middle Easterners and possibly Iraqis)

TAGS:
War on Terror President Bush

I remember Christmas being a hectic time as a child. I would be rushed between several homes to quickly open gifts and then off again to the next (I know, life is hard right?). Well, things haven't changed.

My wife and I have three homes (including our own) to spread ourselves out over from Christmas Eve to Christmas dusk and while the traveling is never more than 45 minutes away from our house at a time, the traveling and lugging packages tends to take its toll on one's constitution.

But we made it and Christmas was a bonafide success this year giftwise. My son got everything he didn't know that he wanted. My daughter is too small to even know or care what she got (but she appreciated it all immensely) and my wife was spoiled by my mother and me as usual (and like she deserves).

Me, I'm always spoiled.

• I got Gears of War for the XBOX 360--the best game I've every played on the system thus far
  

• I also received the XBOX 360 HD-DVD player which has 6x the resolution of normal DVDs and comes with Peter Jackson's King Kong (it looks amazing in 720p, I could just imagine what 1080p looks like)
  

  Six Feet Under: The Complete Series Gift Set on DVD (this is arguably the best dramatic series ever on television and one of the few I consider to be a complete work of proper art)
  

• And my wife gave me the best gift--the Easton Press first printing of Shelby Foote's incredible trilogy The Civil War: A Narrative which has been sold out of its second priting now for a few months. I have been wanting to read this series since the second time I watched the Ken Burns masterpiece The Civil War on DVD when I got it for Christmas a few years back. Foote's down-to earth method of speaking carries through into his writing and he conveys the entire lunacy of the Civil War in the guise of fictional narrative and he pulls it off in a way that even Michael Shaara doesn't pull off (and I enjoy his books as well). These are a very valuable set of books and I will tteasure reading them (of course any series of books from The Easton Press are valuable and worth investing in if you're a bibliophile like I am)
  

• I got my annual desk calendar from my grandmother, a gift I always look forward to because it is one of the few gifts that really do last all year round. This year, she duplicated her success of choice last year with the "Word of the Day" calendar. I actually keep a list at work with my calendar of all the words I didn't know from each day and go over it periodically, tryign to use them in context in a normal discussion

And I was a lottery winner this year, tacking in at $40 worth of scratch off victories.

Sure, Christmas in the richest nation in the world is a bounty of excess and a ritual of adding debts many of us can't repay in a sensible time frame but there is still a lot of magic left in the world at this time of year and the proof of it is that there aren't more deaths from "Wrap Rage" as parents try to un-twisty-tie the toys they bought for their children which whose packages were likely designed by a bitter lonely old man somewhere in Taiwan.

I took my son to see the live action remake of Charlotte's Web yesterday--it was actually a fantastic effort to remake an American classic. I am an emotional man by nature and often find myself pushed and pulled by sympathy and sentimentality. As a young boy, I would ofen anthropomorphize toys and other inanimate objects, attributing deep feelings and even death to them.

I can really think of no better way to introduce a young child to death (besides actually having them undergo losing a loved one) than through story. And I can think of few better stories to introduce a young person to death than Charlotte's Web. I believe this is because it masks the rough truth of death in undying love and selfless giving, much like the story of the crucifixion.

And while Infidel753 and I may agree on the inherent dangers of the human being that has given themselves over sheepishly to a constellation of religious metaphors put forth by a dubious beauracracy of men with questionable political and economic motives who seek to convert religious fervor into worldly power--I think we might also agree that we human beings need these stories to find ourselves and our place in our environment.

And this brings me to my point--how many people out there are living with minds already past the point of redemption? How many minds out there are stuck in a routine of thought that only spirals downward?

I think it is of the utmost importance to have a mind that is fresh and new and interprets the phenomena of the world just like the child's mind. Meditation is the only tool I know of that can refresh and recharge the mind. It can't be done through psychedilics, pharmaceutical or surgery because those things only affect intentional breaks in the patterned routine of the thought processes, breaks the mind must route around and which eventually cause a mental breakdown.

But meditation, the kind which begins with the draining away of the ego and the accumulation of experience through time in the moment (there is no process of becoming enlightened and free--the first step is the only step)--is the means of acquiring a fresh mind and every human being is capable of grasping this knowledge of the ending which is the beginning of true intelligence.

We need our stories but we need green thoughts that bud from the soil of our collective unconscious far more than we need anything else besides sunlight, water, air and food to keep our bodies moving.

Merry Christmas everyone!

LINKS:

• Cannabis is "Affecting Young Minds" ("Duh")
  

• Magic Mushrooms Ease OCD Symptoms
  

• Buy your own Festivus Pole ("A Festivus for the Rest of Us")
  

• Bush Ponders $10 Billion Reconstruction Plan in Iraq while the American Gulf Still Languishes (I will be reporting live on the state of New Orleans next month)
  

• Study find video games may be beneficial to your brain
  

• Calvin and Hobbes Snowman Tribute Page
  
  

• What the NY Times wanted to tell you about Iran (but what the CIA wouldn't let them)
  

• Weapons Made from office supplies
  

• Salma Hayek has something to say (but I don't seem to recall what it was for some reason)

What does it mean to live “between the points?” What are the points? Are they science and religion? Are they conservative and liberal? Are they men and women? Are they childhood and old age? Are they intellectual and physical? Are they quantum physics and cosmology? Are they Freud and Jung? Are they the sacred and the profane? Are they nature and nurture? Are they light beer and stout?

To live between the points is to understand the nature of the human mind—where it begins and where it ends. The very structure of time is inherent in the process of thought—the ticking away of the clock in the song “Time” on the Pink Floyd album Dark Side of the Moon is the sound of the mind in movement. See, the mind is a function of the universe—much like Kepler’s laws of motion which keep planets swinging in elliptical orbits around a common center of gravitational mass.

The paired opposites described in the first paragraph are all addressed in the philosophy of living “Between the Points,” but more importantly they are surpassed for the ultimate pair of opposites—life and death.

When I was nineteen years old, I was enrolled as a Pre-Pre Med student meaning that my grades weren’t good enough to get me in Pre-Med and my patience for analytical science bounced me at about Chemistry 102. But in my study of the many fields of science, I developed a genuine respect for the scientific method and for the science of cosmology in general.

Cosmology is the study of the universe on a grand scale. Quantum physics is a study of the universe on a very small scale. I began studying the nature of the universe at a time when Cosmology and Quantum Physics were merging into a single vision of how the universe physically operates. That vision is still being defined to this day but there was something I learned in a book by Stephen Hawking, A Brief History of Time, that changed my life forever.

I learned about the nature of quantum singularities in space. Quantum singularities are events in space/time where the structure of the universe completely breaks down and the physics that operate everywhere else no longer function. The structure of the universe is space and time so time itself breaks down in these actual places out in the universe.

Well, what struck me about this was not the existence of singularities in outer space but it was the existence of singularities in inner-space and how they both were related to one another. See, I realized that time breaks down in the mind as well—in the form of memory. I can recall events that happened when I was three down to the sight, smell, texture, and even the emotions of vivid memories.

So, there is a point in outer space where time breaks down and there is a point in inner space where time breaks down. Beyond these points is the great unknown—death, birth, heaven, hell, whatever words you choose to use to describe it—the fact is that there is no direct human knowledge that can be quantified and proven through the scientific methodology that determined the edge of physical and mental existence.

So what is one to do with this insight? Well, it’s funny when I look back on these last ten years since I had this epiphany and it is almost as if some unseen hand were guiding me to the answers when I was able to ask the right questions. I’m sure it is the same for you if you were to examine it closely.

One day I found myself at a dead end fork in the road. There was no passion in my life. I had no interest in pursuing the college degree in my course of study. I quit school, got a job in a restaurant, and spent my days in the library chasing some kind of meaning for life. I came across a video series title Transformations of Myth through Time by Joseph Campbell. The answers to most of my questions lay within these twelve VHS tapes.

I came to understand that mankind had been dealing with this very same dilemma for thousands of years—ever since the first death was truly felt. One day, an ancient ancestor of man knew a friend, a wife, a child that was up and walking one day and then lay down and grew still, cold, and died. Something was gone that had just been there. It was at this point that the human spirit was born and it was at this point that art, philosophy, science, and even religion were born as well. These are all methodologies of attempting to discern the exact nature of what lies beyond the two points.

I also came to understand the nature of the metaphor. All words are symbols. The symbols T R E E are not great leafy carbon based life forms that take in Carbon Dioxide to produce oxygen. But we read the word TREE and immediately the letters conjure up an image in our minds. The problem with these symbols comes about when they are used to describe something that cannot be defined in terms of time and space, in other words when they are used to describe what is beyond the points.

Let us consider for a moment the supposed great conflict between science and religion.

Contrary to popular scholarly debate, there is no inherent conflict between science and religion. In fact, religion and science both have a warm history of expressing reality and invoking passion in the human mind. Religion is ultimately concerned with spirituality, with touching the center of man and transforming him or her from the crawling animal to the human being who strives to attain the unknowable, who mourns for dead relatives with established rituals and seeks to relieve the suffering of fellow human beings with compassionate acts.

It is the purpose of the institution of science to give humanity a vision of what the Universe actually is from moment to moment. Science as an institution is constantly in flux; there are no ultimate truths, only hypotheses that must be constantly tested.

Religion is a constellation of metaphors aimed at relating what is beyond the points to the human mind and it is the purpose of religion to penetrate the science of the day and allow the ultimate unknowable truth to shine through its metaphors. But this means that religion must also constantly be in flux and open to change.

The problem comes about when religions begin proposing to their constituents that the metaphors they use to describe the unknown are indeed the actual point of worship. This is the point where money becomes king. This is the point where murder becomes communication and when wars over words escalate so intensely that they threaten the existence of every human being on the planet. But this is also the point of ultimate redemption which can only take place in the mind of the individual for there is no such thing as freedom in a group.

Religious institutions are generally not concerned with spiritual breakthrough of the individual to a realization of the unknown but rather these institutions are supremely concerned with the social integration of their followers under specific teachings and morals. And let us not forget that all religious institutions are ultimately concerned with acquiring money and political power—often at the expense of the very ones they were established to protect and guide toward the sacred light.

The great religious texts that form the foundation of all major religions were composed millennia ago under different scientific laws. The Ancients, with the exception of the Egyptian astronomer Eratosthenes, believed that the Earth was flat. The Ancient Hebrews had never heard of or met the Chinese and if they did, it was never written about. Science changes and so must religious metaphors also change. The truths that all religions offer, however, those common human themes of justice, righteous living, and spiritual emancipation, are anthropic and therefore common to all human beings at all times.

Let us return to our points. So there is a point in outer space where time breaks down and there is a point in inner space where time breaks down; between these points is where the phenomenal world rests. This is the realm of linear motion, of birth and death, of social interaction, scientific investigation, and the worshipping of ideas and dates of historical significance. This is the phenomenal world, broken into pairs of opposites that can be neatly divided and classified under specific categories according to the laws of logic and structure of human existence itself. This is the realm of comparison in which science, religion, and art ultimately guide the human animal to becoming a human being. These institutions accomplish this by guiding the individual to these outer and inner points and ultimately laying the challenge down to go beyond while leaving the temporal and phenomenal world of the individual and collective ego behind.

To live between the points is to live in the realm of death. To understand that no thought or concept can go beyond those two points is the beginning of intelligence and not the intelligence brought about through time and study, but an eternal intelligence that is only present when the mind is quiet--silent. This intelligence is vast, all encompassing and all-powerful. When one has reached this precipice you have come to the realm of the sacred in the heart and mind of man and defining this moment as the boundary between Heaven and the phenomenonal world.


Intelligent human beings, the humble among us, understand that what lies beyond the two points is unknowable to the mind of man which has been composed by knowledge of the in-between. The intelligent understand this limitation, what thought is capable of and what it is not, and put thought aside in areas of life where it is not applicable. The in-between will never relate to what is beyond the points and the true mystic and quiet observer of this fact will come to understand that the two points are really the same point—the alpha and the omega—the beginning and the end. It is the still point upon which the Buddha sat and struck illumination.

The reference that religious metaphors refer to is the still point and to know the still point is to understand the nature of death in the moment. Once the understanding of the complete cessation of psychological movement is understood, not as a theory but as clearly as one looks up to the night sky and recognizes the Moon, a glorious palace of pure energy rises from the wasteland to replenish what was once a weary spirit. This is the shining city on a hill that is the beacon of liberty for all of mankind to take part in because they are human mortals who share this spinning globe adrift in an elliptical orbit around an average yellow star in one of many long arms of gas and dust that orbit a massive galactic core set adrift in a sea of other galaxies all moping around the greatest point of gravity known to the mind.

But there is only one mind of man and inside the mind of the individual is a point of infinity just as there is in the farthest reaches of space, past the 10-43 seconds after the Big Bang barrier that our senses and our science cannot see beyond. There is an alpha and omega of liberty and it begins in the mind of the individual and ends at the farthest point the mind can stretch toward and conceive. The distance traveled between these two points is that of time and history and we bring this experience into the present moment to create the world we each live in. Each human mind is the totality of the Universe and the Universe itself exists distinctly in the mind of each individual. E Pluribus Unum.

This world is a collective product of all minds active in the present moment, each bringing their own experience to shape reality which ultimately shapes the reality of human society. What would the world be like with ten, twenty, a hundred individuals who were capable of grasping the still point and losing themselves at any moment? The answer is that the entire world would eventually be composed of artists; every politician, auto mechanic, lawyer, check out clerk, writer, singer, actor and painter would be capable of shedding their ego and stepping outside of time to bask in eternity. The sun fire is hot on the sandy beaches outside the river of time. The solar rays of eternity shine deep and warm as the vicissitudes of time evaporate from one's skin and the sand of creative energy hugs and sustains the artistic vision that has inspired mankind to crawl from the muck as slugs to become rulers of this insignificant yet beautiful planet. The energy is eternal; it is the individual who falls into darkness without it. There is only one truth, yet the sages speak of it with many names.

TAGS: Philosophy, Spirituality, Religion, Joseph Campbell, Jiddu Krishnamurti, Quantum Physics, Cosmology, Science, Singularity, Between the Points

1. Had a baby girl: It's been said that you're not a true parent until you've had two kids. I was raised an only child and I would never level such a charge against my mother who enjoyed assistance from my entire family in raising me. But another phase of life began the day I first met my baby girl and I revel in watching her and my son grow inches from minutes each day. Life would hold little meaning without my family; they allow me to charge the world following the angels of my better nature.
   
   

2. Told my wife and children that I love them at least once a day: Sappy, I know but the fact is that you never know when your last breath is going to take place and the first order of business in making sure your affairs are set in order should be to express your emotions to the people you care the most about. For me, that number one is my wife and children, although it may not seem like that to them.
   
   

3. Got a great promotion at my new job: I took a gamble and even turned down more money to come in at an entry-level position at my new company and was promoted to a pretty prominent role in less than a year. I look forward to continuing my upward professional climb.
   
   

4. Got hired at the greatest company in the world 7 days after #5: I don't name or talk about the company I presently work for so I won't go into detail. It is sufficient to say that not only am I proud to work for my company, every day brings a new and welcome challenge that I feel advances me in a worthwhile way.
   
   

5. Got fired from a douche bag company in 7 days: Remember this? I'm going to use a bad word now. Eff health insurance; eff shitty overhead health insurance jobs and eff United Health Care in particular. The boweevil faced corporate twat that I worked for was a slimy slug wallowing in the bowels of the hell she has made for herself, a great bloody field of mistrust and animosity that the entire health insurance industry has become. We have allowed health insurers to conglomerate around Congress and create an entire middle man industry out of a post-World War II loophole that provided a tax shield to companies who offered health benefits to their workers. This industry is literally sucking the life out of our economy and our pocket books and for my money is a far greater threat to our democracy than Al Queda or Saddam Hussein. When I see United Health Group caught up in a scandal, I smile because those bastards deserve to go the way of Enron and I would have quit if the douche's hadn't fired me first for surfing the Internet (Monster.com coincidentally) on my break. Assholes.
   
   

6. Bought a 42" HD Samsung DLP television: I love my television and refuse to watch any television show that isn't broadcast in High Definition. Call me a snob if you want to but if you're still watching 480 lines of interlaced resolution then you may as well be listening to Little Orphan Annie and The Shadow on the radio.
   
   

7. Bought an XBOX 360: The best game system out there, hands down. Don't give me the puss-boy PS3 blue-ray argument because the XBOX 360 beats Sony's overpriced gas bag at every angle. Video games are the best way to unplug, unwind and recharge that I know of besides getting into a really good book.
   
   

8. Got digital HD cable with an dual tuner HD DVR: Nothing beats being able to record all your favorite television shows in high definition even when two of them are on at the same time. Civilization isn't worth a squirt without DVR--without it, it would feel like living in trees and caves again.
   
   

9. Attended the OSU Michigan game:Quite simply the best college football game I could ever hope to attend. My buckeyes came out on top but Michigan still put up one hell of a fight, making the Big Ten look all the better. The pre-party festivities were barely describable and an experience that everyone should make a pilgrimage to come see.
   
   

10. Saw Tool play live here in Columbus: Maynard James Keenan is one of my favorite artists in the world, whether it's A Perfect Circle or Tool and this was the second time I saw Tool play live. While the entire performance was a knock out, my favorite song of the night was "Pot" from the new album 10,000 Days.

LINKS:

• Why Gears of War Cost $60
  
• Seinfeld fans can now give the gift the gift that keeps on giving: Make a Donation in Someone's Name to the Human Fund "Money for People" (hat tip to Fantastic Bastard)

What pisses you off at Christmas time?

One of the things that pisses me off about is when people refer to pain in the ass money grubbers as "Scrooges." So, for once and all--back off Ebenezer, you pricks! Scrooge should be heralded along with Santa Clause and Frosty as icons of giving and charity but no--those without a literary strand of hair on their heads persist in relegating Scrooge to the spot of his character prior to its transformation.

Consider the finality of Dickens's masterpiece:

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.

He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One!

I guess I shouldn't be so surprised that so many would fail to pay attention to the most important part of the story and of this character when so many Christians allowed the holiday celebrating the birth of their savior (which was actually commandeered from a Pagan Festival celebrating the Winter Solstice--a time when light begins to dominate over darkness) to become perverted into a commercialized version of goodwill and brotherly love.

But for the record--don't call douche bags Scrooges around me because you're likely to get an earful.

So, sound off--what is it that roast your chestnuts this time of year? Those pain in the ass Santa Clauses ringing their bells outside Wal-Mart? How about the endless potlucks at work? White Elephant gift exchanges where people sit around for an hour swapping household trash? What makes your Frosty balls melt in the greenhouse of yuletide?

LINKS:

• Full text of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
  
• First Cloned Cat has Kittens
  
• Anti-Bush T-shirts no longer allowed on airplanes
  
• Funniest commercial in a long time
  
• Die Hard 4 Trailer
  
• Andy Mckee will amaze you with this guitar style

TAGS:
Christmas Ebenezer Scrooge Scrooge A Christmas Carol Charles Dickens

I was privileged to receive early screening passes to see the sixth installment in the Rocky series and have to say that I was very pleased with Stallone's production. And I want to warn you that I am going to spoil the plot line if you continue to read this post but nobody goes to see Rocky movies because of the plot lines.

And like all the movies in this series, the plot isn't very complicated. Rocky is still learning to live in a world without his beloved wife Adrian who died of "the woman cancer" three years prior to the beginning of the movie. His son is struggling with living in the shadow of his famous father. Pauly is coming to peace with the cranky assholish way he's lived his life (and yes, he's still working at that frigging meat packing plant) and the nemesis of the ring, Mason "The Line" Dixon is struggling with not being able to find an opponent who challenges his heart in the ring, who can make him go the distance.

This movie is the swan song of the series that Rocky V tried to be but fell slightly short of becoming. There are quite a few old and friendly trinkets that come up like the fully aged and grown turtles cuff and link that Rocky bought from Adrian's pet shop in the first movie. Spider Rico (the boxer who Rocky opens up the first movie fighting and who head butted him with a cheap shot) is now a reformed man of God who works as a dishwasher in Rocky's restaurant (named "Adrian's" of course, established in 1995). The little girl who Rocky walked home from the Atomic Hoagie shop in the first movie (the one he had to use a bad word with--"whore" and who told him "screw you, creepo") becomes a good friend to Rocky. The painting from Rocky III where Rocky and Apollo punch each other in the final seconds is now hanging on the wall of his restaurant and we get to see him down an amazing five eggs at once from possibly the same dirty ass glass.

Oh, and don't forget the latest version of the classic song "Take It Back" which will never sound better than when the five guys sang it over the dumpster fire in the first movie Hall and Oats style.

But this movie is distinctly different from the others in the series in that it is all about heart. On his magnificent classic rap album No One Can Do It Better, The D.O.C. said, "You may think I speak of music/but I speak of coming up." Well, you may think this movie is about boxing but it's about coming up. It's about self respect--how to lose it, how to get it and how to fight your ass off to keep it.

On a technical aspect, the fight scenes are filmed totally different than any of the other Rocky movies, resembling an actual fight. You can tell Stallone learned a great deal from his time producing the amazing first season of The Contender with Sugar Ray Leonard.

And while the training part of the movie is pretty good--nothing beats the training montage in Rocky IV when Hearts on Fire is playing and he's doing those reverse crunches on his head--that still gets me pumped up every time I watch it.

Look--this movie is going to get made fun of but people all over the world inherently love the character of Rocky for the same reason that people love the concept of America--because it's simple. It's easy. It feels right--even when it falls short. And stories don't become myths because of the trickery of their plot lines (The DaVinci Code will never be a mythology despite its fascinating story line). Stories become myths because they feel right inside our hearts and allow our minds to suspend disbelief just long enough to let a little magic seep back in from beyond the borders of rationality and provincialism.

I do recommend that you see this movie because there are far worse ways to spend an hour and a half than in saying goodbye to an American icon as he walks into the limelight of a sunset that feels right. There are no losers in this movie; everbody wins. The movie is more about saying goodbye to the ultimate underdog as he overcomes one more impossible odd. Don't forget that Rocky has never been about winning; it's always about going the distance--even when he won.

Rocky Balboa gives you a warm feeling like going back and kissing the person you lost your virginity to--it's not the best you've ever had but it sure beats kissing a pig.

Has Uncle Josh ever lied to ya?

LINKS:

• MySpace beats Yahoo in page views
  
• Bush wants war in outer space legalized
  
• Blackberry sues over Blackjack

TAGS:
Rocky Balboa Sylvester Stallone Film Review

If you like, listen to me read the story while you read along by pushing play on the contraption above

The Night Mary Beth Jacksey Told Her Father that Jesus was a Coward

—That's it—the preacher said as he slammed his palm on the dinner table causing the antique crystal vase in the china cabinet to rattle and the dog to bark. Every member of the room, except Mary Beth's newest boyfriend, immediately looked at the vase and prayed it wouldn't fall. It had been in the preacher's family for generations. He was neurotic about it. The preacher, after checking the vase and seeing it unharmed, looked at his daughter with a calm eye—I will not have that kind of talk in this house. Please take this person you've brought with you and leave—Mary Beth's newest boyfriend was a greasy-headed mop top with a pimple under his left nostril and a barb wire tattoo that wrapped around his right bicep. His best friend told him it was, bitchin.

Mary Beth recoiled from her father's verbal front—Oh Daddy, don’t take it personal. I just mean that if Jesus really cared about the suffering of other people, then why didn't he stay here on earth and suffer with them? Wasn't it a bit idealistic for him to assume that because he suffered one day of intense agony, it would make up for the billions of people that had been killed already? Not to mention the billions that were eventually slaughtered in his name?—She sat back, assured that her father had no comeback for this recently acquired Philosophy 301 supposition. She had got an A. The whole time in class, she was giving her father the mental finger. Every word she read was a possible bullet to fire into the heart of her father's faith.

The preacher's face grew red as the ass curve of a rose petal. He threw his napkin on the table, scooted his chair back, and turned to walk away, tripping over the dog that always lay at his feet waiting for an edible handout—son of a bitch—he landed face down on the wooden floor. Restrained laughter hung in the air like wet smoke. He collected himself and left the room as diligently as he fell.

Mary Beth looked at her mother, who was already looking at Mary Beth—You know how your father is, Mary Beth. It's best just to let him have his say without arguing, like I do—As she looked at her namesake, Mary Beth's face contorted into the campus friendly feminist arguing pose—Mother do you have any idea how completely submissive you sound right now? I am so sick of daddy telling me that the world is his way only and everyone else is going to hell—She paused and added—I don't even believe in hell—Her mother looked down at her lap and said in a hushed tone, like she didn't want anyone to hear, maybe not even herself—Now I have to go repair what you've done—She pushed her chair back, got up, grabbed her dishes and pushed her chair back in. She turned to walk up the steps, stopping to empty her plate in the trash and rinse it in the sink. The dog began barking again.

Mary Beth asked her newest boyfriend what he would like to do next. He was not concerned with the present moment. His mind was on later tonight and the panties Mary Beth might or might not be wearing—Do you want to see something funny—He shook his head yes, not hearing what she asked him. Mary Beth's dog was a miniature collie named Rain. When someone would repeatedly smack his butt fast and hard, he would take off running around the house, barking and yipping his way through his own personal maze of ass slaps and close calls with the furniture. The preacher abhorred such behavior and forbade anyone to participate in the dog's psychological ass slapping disorder. But Mary Beth was upset with her father and had no remorse about trying his nerves.

She smacked the dog’s ass with multiple slaps and being used to the drill, he rocketed away, barking and yipping. There were different patterns he ran. Sometimes it was the figure eight; sometimes he opted for the straight circle. But this particular time, it was a Euclidean nightmare. He attempted to run the infamous, two-dimensional dodecahedron in between the living room, kitchen, and dining room. He was unsuccessful. With one lap left to complete the twelve-face geometrical Holy Grail, he was determined to avoid the ass slap. He juked left under the table, became ensnared in the long lace tablecloth, and bolted out directly into the china cabinet. The vase tipped left. Then right. Wobbling on its base like a top. It fell in an arch, drawn out like an Olympic diver. The dog, sensing an impending disaster, ran from the room just as the vase crashed. He wasn't seen for the rest of the night.


Mary Beth's mother ascended the stairs with the knowledge that she was the bridge builder, the pontiff, tonight. Her husband bridged the gap between God and people, but she bridged the gap between her husband and the family he estranged at God's expense. She entered the room. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands covering his face. There was a half-empty rocks glass of Alka-Seltzer on the nightstand. The preacher was crying.

She went to him and held him. She knew that Mary Beth didn't hate Jesus and she knew Mary Beth didn't hate her father either. She thought that her daughter was just confused right now and that was okay because Mary Beth's mother had a great reservoir of patience. Her husband's bridges were strong, but his wife's patience was the water that flowed underneath them, always warm and always moving. She knew her husband had a rough day. He had been pushed to his breaking point. She could do more for her husband by just holding him. She hoped Mary Beth would eventually learn this art. A high decibel crash of breaking glass destroyed their healing embrace. The preacher's head jerked up towards the door—Oh don't tell me. Son of bitch. SON OF A BITCH—He ran out of the room and down the stairs.

Mary Beth's mother stared at the rocks glass. She picked it up and finished the rest of the Alka-Seltzer. She put the glass back on the nightstand and listened patiently to the rising voices as they echoed off the hallways and doors of the house. She would wait for the voices to settle before going downstairs to patch whatever rip had been made. She lay back against the pillow, thought of her own mother, and listened to the voices fence each other into the night.

The Night Mary Elizabeth Burnt Her Mother's Moses Cookies

—Mary Elizabeth, do you mean to tell me that the whole time you've been dating this boy you've neglected to mention that he's not Jewish? And suddenly after all this time, you tell us that not only is he a Gentile, but he's a Christian minister as well—Mary Elizabeth looked at her fifty-year old mother with her twenty-four year old eyes—Mom, he's a wonderful man. I don't care what you say about him. He will be here in a half-hour and so help me, you'd better not do anything to ruin this—Her mother’s jaw clenched—I told your Father that we never should have given you a Christian name—Her mother turned her back, which infuriated Mary Elizabeth. She turned her own back to her mother and left the room, smacking the doorframe on her way out.


Later that evening, at the dinner table, just after Mary Elizabeth had announced her engagement to her boyfriend who was not only not a Jew, but a Christian minister as well, her father grabbed her and her fiancé's hand with tears in his eyes—You have both made me so happy. All I ever wanted was for my daughter to marry a nice man. One that would love her, and take care of her—And her father smiled a wicked smirk—And take these bills off my back. She's like a full time payment—He looked to the young man—I hope you know how to swindle your congregation young man. She's a regular down payment weekly—Mary Elizabeth smiled at her father because she loved him. It was that simple. She looked at her mother and her mother was looking away.

Her mother bent down to pet the cat, mumbling incohesively. She took her hand away from the feline, swiveled forcefully in her chair and banged her shoe on the table leg. She did not reply when asked if she was alright. Her mother got up from the table and went into the kitchen. Her father called after her—Where are you going, you haven't even finished your meal yet—Mary Elizabeth's mother called back from the kitchen—I have to put my cookies in the oven so they'll be ready for dessert—Mary Elizabeth's mother often made cookies during Hanukkah. The family called them her Moses cookies.

Mary Elizabeth got up and followed her mother into the kitchen—Mom, why can't you be happy for me? Why do you always have to spoil everything—Her mother had her back turned as she was sliding an aluminum tray of blobby dough into the oven. She refused to answer her daughter—So help me mother, if you don't speak to me now then I don't want you to have ANY PART OF MY WEDDING—Her mother whipped around and stared at her daughter with horror—You would do that, wouldn't you? On top of everything else, you would just cut your own mother off. What did I birth? What did I do to deserve such a hateful child—Mary Elizabeth had heard enough—YOU ARE NOT WELCOME AT MY WEDDING MOTHER—She tore open the back door and ran into the night, leaving a hole in her mother's home that remained even after the door had been shut.

Mary Elizabeth's mother ran sobbing, back into the dining room where her husband and her daughter’s fiancé had been listening in disbelief to the argument raging in the kitchen—She hates me. She hates me. Her own mother—Her husband asked the fiancé if he would please excuse them. He took his wife upstairs and held her as she sobbed. They fell asleep only to be woken by the smell of smoke. The Moses cookies were blackened. They looked as if they had been hit by raining fire from one of the ten plagues of Egypt. For years, her mother blamed Mary Elizabeth for the burning of her famous Moses Hanukkah cookies.


The Day the Preacher Understood the Shame of Jesus

The Preacher shuffled up to the pulpit. He was wearing a white silk robe. He had no pants or undergarments on underneath. He arranged his Bible and poured himself a glass of water from a crystal pitcher, a gift from the Women’s Auxiliary. He cleared his throat and addressed the congregation—Ladies and Gentlemen, God is angry. God is upset. He has given us laws to live by. Simple laws, yet so many of us seem to fall prey to temptation and sin—His erection was beginning to stir underneath the robe—For so long God has been patient with us, and I ask why Oh Lord. Why do you have such precious patience with us Heathens? What did we possibly do to deserve this infinite gift of your attention and salvation? That you would send your only begotten Son, Jesus, to die on the cross for our wicked and sinful ways and yet we still refuse to give them up, Oh Lord I’M SORRY. I’M SORRY WE HAVE FALLEN INTO THE DEVIL’S HANDS—He grabbed himself down there as he spoke. Oh God, give me strength not to do this. Please. I can’t continue doing this. It started off innocently. A scratch. An adjustment. But then he got worked up. Spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke of the infinite love of God by sending Jesus. It was the same speech every week, just different words. He took hold at a moment of great passion. One moment he was damning the Devil and the next he was jerking for Jesus.

He continued with his one-handed sermon—We are living in the modern day Sodom and Gomorrah. Whores on every street corner. Porno directors without scruples. Why, even the institution of God has become corrupted by the Devil’s seed—Oh God, please no. Don’t let me do this in your home. I can’t stop, it feels too good. This had been going on for about six months. The Preacher rationalized it by believing that his acts of Holy Masturbation were a covenant between himself and Jesus, something sacred only both of them knew. But there was someone else who knew. The Preacher glanced at his wife, sitting in the front row with a decent viewing angle behind the podium.

The Preacher realized, with horror, that his wife was watching him. They both remained frozen. He stopped speaking. The congregation became uneasy. Murmurs rose to a cacophonous roar. His wife stood up and ran into the Preacher’s office, behind the pulpit stage. His jaw locked. His tongue wouldn’t work. He turned to run after her, but his robe caught on a broken piece of lamination from the ply wood pulpit. The robe tore off and there he was, his back to the congregation, bare ass exposed, looking up to the wooden crucified Christ that hung on the wall highlighted by track lighting. He fell to his knees and raised his arms to the wooden idol as if to say—Why have you forsaken me Lord—The congregation was disgusted. They rose in rotting masses and filed languidly into the receiving room. Some took their offering out of the collection plate on the way out.


The Preacher lay on the couch in his office with his head in his wife’s lap. She was stroking the locks of hair that lay across his forehead. She was completely calm. He was staring at the ceiling as if waiting for a bush to grow out and light itself on fire, telling him he was redeemed. His wife looked at him like he was a child—You know, sometimes you’re like that damn vase you love so much. So fragile. Sometimes that’s what I see you as, a human crystal vase. Something that needs to be guarded against falling and breaking—The Preacher turned his gaze from the ceiling to his wife—You know that vase has been in my family for generations, Mary Elizabeth. It was the only thing left standing after my family was raided by Indians on their voyage west. And that was only because my mother was using it as bedpan for fear of peeing in nature—His family had actually been robbed by other white settlers, but the story sounded more in tune with American History when he told it this way.

His wife continued to look at him with pity—Well, all I have to say about this incident is that you’ll recover. Apologize to the people that decide to come next week and they’ll forgive you. They are Christians, after all—The Preacher’s lips pursed because he doubted his own congregation’s ability not to judge and to forgive, particularly since he judged every person he saw at every opportunity he had. He also held very little forgiveness in his heart. His wife gently pushed his head off her lap, got up, strung her purse over her shoulder and began to leave. She turned around and looked at him, still lying on the couch—Make sure you’re home in time for dinner tonight. Mary Beth is bringing her new boyfriend. And please be cordial—The Preacher shifted on the couch and closed his eyes—Is this the kid with the barbwire tattoo? The one that doesn’t go to church—His wife nodded her head—I know, I’d like to say something to her too, but I’d feel just like my mother. Mary Beth will learn. She just needs time—She opened the door and left. The Preacher rolled over, facing the back of the couch. Shuddering violently, he wrapped his arms around himself and began to cry.

When I graduated from college in the Spring of 2000, I hadn't been to see the dentist in over five years. And I still hadn't gone by the time I settled in with full time benefits at Anthem Blue Cross & Blue Shield in Cincinnati in the late Summer of said year.

Since cleanings and checkups were free with my insurance, I figured what the H? And I did the dumbest thing I possibly could--I opened the yellow pages and picked the first cool ad I found that was near to work and home.

The lucky dentistry practice was named Kingdom Family Dentistry and it was right around the corner from my work and on my way home at the time. I made my appointment for a Friday afternoon.

When I got there, nothing seemed out of the ordinary--it was a standalone ranch building that housed only the dentist office. The dentist was a beautiful black woman, mature but still classy. The office staff was nice enough.

I had to get x-rays with those insufferable frigging bitewings where the plastic cuts into your gums and you smile like a damned fool while high intensity power waves ripple through your gray matter.

As an aside, how safe does it make you feel when the hygenist goes around he frigging corner to push the button to avoid being hit with the rays herself.
I got into the chair and the hygenist started poking around and scraping inside my mouth. I always thought there should be a superhero who was hit by gamma rays and mutated in the dentist chair--perhaps The Molinator like in The Santa Clause 2. But I digress.

After the x-rays, the hygeinist starts poking around and scraping. She finds two cavities that she says the dentist will fill during that visit. So, she finishes with her cleaning and the dentist comes in and pokes and scrapes some more.

Then the drill came out and shit got crazy. Just after I was novacained up and before she put the drill in my mouth; she hit play on one of those little tv/vcro combos posted in the upper right hand corner of the office. I thought, this lady is going to watch soap operas while she drills my teeth.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

All of the sudden, this church shit starts up at full, surround sound volume. It was like being front row in a Billy Graham revival. And the worst thing was that the preacher was Rod fucking Parsley.

Those of you who have read this blog for years, know of my eternal and infernal disdain for this gruesome specimen of humanity and if you don't, feel free to catch up here.

Apparently, the word "Kingdom" in the practice name had more metaphyiscal applications than someone's last name (come to think of it, I've never heard of anyone with the last name of Kingdom so double dumb ass on me). And now I've got this crazy religious dentist lady drilling my teeth while Rod Parsley rages and sweats and ear splitting volume.

People, I'm telling you--I was in the fourth circle of Dante's hell (the fifth is reserved for Parsley himself and the sixth through eighth is for Haliburton and Enron execs whose sins have impelled God to evict the Devil back up to the slums of heaven, finally answering Tupac's immortal question of whether Heaven has a ghetto too).

Now, don't get me wrong--if you're a devoutly religious person and being esconced in the middle of quaint second through fourth century Middle Eastern metaphor and ritual get you through the day--more power to you.

If giving yourself over to the belief that you are inherently better than other human beings because of the direction that your thoughts flow as the electrical impulses spark and jump the gaps between neurons in your brain--I say, "A Salud!"

But don't fucking strap me down with a drill in my mouth and subject me to what would be construed as torture under the Geneva convention because I was too stupid to read the fine print in your yellow pages ad.

Needless to say, I did not schedule a follow up visit six months later. But, oddly enough--my teeth never felt cleaner. Go figure.

LINKS:

• Reverse_Vampyr has a health issue and needs your prayers and kind thoughts--help a brother out and wish him well
  

• WKRP is finally coming to DVD (with some substituted music, of course)
  

• Infidel753 left a comment with a blog link here the other day. Check his blog out here--very insightful and pithy commentary on social issues there. He's earned a probationary spot on the BWP blogroll (don't worry Infidel, I'm not as viscious as JD is with cutting his blogroll--he cleans house frequently!)

No, not the actual berries. I'm talking about the voice-data device which has been around for about ten years or so but which just recently fell into your never-humble correspondent's sticky little paws.

I suspect that all workplaces with these devices are the same--they are a status symbol. When you get to carry your e-mail and cell phone on your hip; your company has given you a badge of importance much like military stripes.

And it feels good to have one. It feels like you're important. People walk and roll the circle on the side like they're reading the most interesting thing instead of spam e-mail that gets through the filters.

And even talking on the phone with the blackberry is a power symbol. In an age when most phones are the size of a suppository, the blackberry is like a tricorder from the original Star Trek series. Again, it's not just a phone call--it's a social statement but one that my ego enjoys making.

So, tell me--what's your experience with blackberries or similar devices in the workplace? Are they just another ego-stroking measure by professional salaried people to lord their importance over paid-by-the-hour schleps?

Or are they a valuable resource for getting shit done in corporate America?

LINKS:

• No one is worthy enough to face Ohio State this year (hat tip to Fantastic Bastard)
  

• Should the Auschwitz Death Camp be preserved?
  

• Have St. Paul's Bones Been Found?
  

• Did water flow "recently" on Mars?
  

• SPACE NEWS: NASA is going back to the Moon, the Russians want in and Ohio is considering setting up a space port about ten miles from my house
  

• California Court says bloggers can't be sued for libel by posting defamatory statements made by others
  

• The best divorce letter ever (hat tip to Reverse_Vampyr)

TAGS:
Blackberry Business Corporate Communication

There is some great TV happening right now. I know that it's in style to hate on television because of its sex and violence and paper thin morality tales but there are some quality pieces of social art being created right now that you could be missing out on. Here are my votes for the shows you should be watching:

• Friday Night Lights: I was a little skeptical about how successful a transition this show would be from the movie but I could have said the same about the movie from the book. My wife challenged me that this show would spiral into a 90210/One Tree Hill style teen soap opera but I believe this show has captured the look and feel of the movie and has engaging story arcs, believable characters and never strays from a love of football where the heart beats the loudest--high school. Also, Minka Kelly is the hottest girl on television right now and I would watch and eight hour movie of her sleeping and reading in silence if they aired it.



• My Name is Earl: Funny. Funny. Funny. This show does for white trash stereotypes what the Simpsons did for boring cartoons. I have long been a fan of Jason Lee's (ever since Mallrats and I was very happy to see him get his own show. But I had no idea how funny this sumbitch was going to be. The premise of a reformed douche bag whose seen the karmic light of how everything is interconnected and now wants to make amends for all his past wrongs is brilliant. The execution of this concept is flawless and the icing on the cake are the support cast. Jamie Presley deserves an Emmy and millions of dollars an episode for her perfect white trash barbie acting. And don't count out Ethan Stuplee as Randy the idiot but kind-hearted brother and Eddie Steeples as Darnell, the very weird but funny ex-wife's new husband who is about as good a friend to Earl as anyone in the show. There is some fantastic writing and acting going on in this show.
  
  

• The Office:What can I say? If you're not watching this show and you have the ability to then you're an idiot. This is the funniest show on television right now although my suspicion is that you won't appreciate it as much if you don't work in a cubicled office environment. Oh yeah, the original British version created by Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant is just as funny and definitely well worth picking up the complete box set of. This American version was co-created between Ricky and Mike Judge (of Beavis and Butthead and Office Space legend).
  
  

• Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip: I stayed away from The West Wing for a long time (until the last month, actually) because of stupid politics which just goes to show you that thinking politically makes people very stupid. This sophomore television effort to the West Wing takes place in a totally different environment--behind the scenes of a weekly live comedy sketch program (ala Saturday Night Live. Bradley Whitmore is as great as ever and Matthew Perry actually shines far beyond any work he did in Friends. And Amanda Peet is really good and still hot although I continue to see her completely naked in my mind like she was in The Whole Nine Yards. Sorkin's productions are fast and he gives no leniency to the audience in terms of explanation--he expects us to keep up which is something I appreciate. He and his writers and directors are also very bold in the story of their script structures, flashing back and forth between time periods and POVs and you have to be quick and attentive to follow what's happening. In other words, you should be watching this show but if someone talks to you during it, pause it and tell them to shut the eff up.
  
  

• America's Funniest Home Videos: Great stuff. Always has been.
  
  

• Grey's Anatomy: Sappy but addictive hospital drama that is an indulgence but features some really good situations that tug the emotions and loyalties of the viewer. This is a show for those who like to be moved by television and art.
  
  

• Lost: This is the worthy successor to The X-Files and if you like weird shit, you're missing out if you're not watching it. Do yourself a favor and buy both the first two seasons on DVD and catch up.
  
  

• Men in Trees: I can hear the pitch meeting now--Northern Exposure meets Sex and the City. A successful relationship author (Anne Heche) and non-lesbian has a rough break up and moves to Elmo Alaska to find herself and learn everything she can about men. She ends up falling in love the town and the town's hunk who is a biologist and woodsy type fellow. The town has some weird folks and weird traditions but the "normal" world of New York City and her writing career constantly pulls our protagonist in two directions which will be the primary conflict in the story of her search for love and happiness.
  
  My mother got my wife watching this and I by proxy have caught most of the episodes. Let me just say outright that I am a HUGE fan of Northern Exposure--I think it was one of the best hour-long dramas ever on television and was so culturally subversive at times that it never should have been made. That being said, I was also a big fan of Sex and the City. And I think that the writers and producers of Men in Trees have done a good job of marrying the central themes and concepts of both shows in a way that takes away neither and edifies both. This one is well worth watching.
  
  

• What About Brian: A guy who has great friends but serious commitment issues falls in love with his best friend's fiancee and causes their marriage plans to fall apart and the would-be bride to skip town. He's a video game designer who goes bust when his other best friend sleeps with the wrong executive who ends up taking years of hard video game coding and uploading it to a free Internet game site, forcing poor Brian into a miserable life of working for his father as a real estate agent. There are other story lines going on in this late-night soap opera but there's enough there to keep it interesting and keep me tuned in, although I'm very anxious to see the beautiful Sarah Lancaster make her appearance once again on the show.
  
  

• Brothers and Sisters: Six Feet Under dumbed down for a network television audience. That's what is appeared like at first but this show has grown on me. First of all, it's got Sally Field who besides being one of the greatest actresses ever (remember the crying scene at the end of Steel Magnolias?), she's still pretty friggin' hot for her age and definitely continues to fall into the MILF category. But the story arcs and characters are very interesting as well, especially the not-so silent war which occurs between Callista Flockhart's character (a conservative talk show host who is slowly but surely becoming liberalized), her brother who suffered as a soldier from PTSD after the Afghanistan campaign and is a drug addict and now could be going back into battle in Iraq--and the mother (Sally Field) who carries a serious grudge against Callista for encouraging him to sign up in the first place. Great stuff here.
  
  

• The Class: I started watching this show at Shane Nickerson's request because his sister writes for it. It's damn funny. It would take too long to explain the concept so do yourself a favor and check it out on Monday nights.
  
  

• How I Met Your Mother: The second funniest show on television and something you should definitely be watching. Neil Patrick Harris's character "Barney" will go down in history if he keeps it up; make sure to read his blog each week.
  
  

• Two and a Half Men: Charlie Sheen carries this show and he's as funny as ever.
  
  

• House: Another great hospital drama with one of the most unique leading characters in all of television. Gregory House is a son of a bitch but keeps you glued to the screen to see how he's going to insult the next person and solve the next medical dilemma. David Morse's character this season, as the pissed off detective hell bent on breaking House over his knee, is brilliant and exactly what the show needed to keep it fresh. Congrats to the writing staff on this season--it's fantastic again!
  
  

• 24: The most unique concept in television drama continues to deliver. Last season was the most intense and well-acted season yet. I can't wait to see what they do with this one. Although I'm a little disappointed we won't get to see Jack being captured and tortured in China--probably some kind of politics going on with that one.
  
  

• Prison Break: I've said it before--this show is edge of your seat cool. This season has been just as harrowing as the last one and the writers are keeping the show fresh where other prison shows like Oz tended to fizzle out towards the end. I think they have one more good season in them before they should end this show but WOW what a ride it has been!

Now it's your turn to sound off. Are there any shows I'm missing out on? Why are they worth checking out?

TAGS:
Television Friday Night Lights My Name is Earl The Office Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip America\'s Funniest Home Videos Grey\'s Anatomy Lost Men in Trees What About Brian Brothers and Sisters The Class How I Met Your Mother Two and a Half Men House 24 Prison Break

My father-in-law called me last night to tell me that he purchased a Direct TV HD-DVR for $200. He was the first in the family to purchase a High Definition Samsung 50" DLP television and he bought the DirectTV HD-receiver at the time. The receiver did not pick up local channels so he had to buy an external antennae to pick up the local stations in HD.

He had a Tivo Series 2 at the time (and a Series 1 as well, which he purchase from my wife and I when we upgraded to our Series 2). But the Series 2 Tivo wouldn't record in HD and he ended up watching the majority of his shows in less than Standard Definition in spite of paying the premium through Direct TV for their High Definition package.

So, when his DirectTV HD-receiver started going on the fritz (after only two years, mind you); he broke down and got the HD-DVR. He said it will record 50 hours of HD programming or 250 hours of regular programming. This is massive.

My own DVR which I pay a $12 fee for through my cable company, only records 30 hours of HD programming but is a dual-tuner meaning I can record two shows at the same as I'm watching something I've already recorded.

Now, he's still underwriting the risk of hardware by purchasing the $200 DVR unit for DirectTV while my $12 a month will get me a replacement if mine breaks but even that is a far cry from the $1,000 that Tivo is asking for the Series 3. And you have to pay a monthly Tivo premium on top of that.

Tivo is now giving away Series 2 boxes but this is something they should have been doing three years ago. See, why do you think DirectTV has become so prevalent in the cable marketplace? Because they're giving away the equipment and encouraging people to leave the dishes on houses when they move. DirectTV can be installed on campers, buses, boats and other large vehicles whereas cable needs a static residence.

Tivo had some great online features that allowed for remote scheduling as well as downloading shows to a PC but these weren't valuable enough services to me to justify taking $1,000 risk on my own shoulders plus paying a monthly premium on top of that.

And guess what? Rumor has it that the Tivo Series 3 won't even work with satellite cable--how insane is that? Why in the world would you leave out such a significant portion of your market when you're striving to keep as many clients as possible, not to mention gaining new ones.

Tivo's demise is a market inevitability despite the one-time superiority of its product. They were the brand to beat in the DVR market at one time but now the brand is beaten and what will follow is the natural progression of the best goods and services bubbling to the top in a consumer market.

TAGS:
Tivo DVR Direct TV

He was a Poet
by Joshua Minton

I had almost forgotten where I was going until she asked me. My granddaughter, Erin, asked me what a poet was. I had told her before that I had once dated a poet when I was younger. I tossed that word out as if it were common knowledge that everyone should know what a poet is. I didn’t know what to say to her. How could I explain? How could I even scratch the surface of what that man meant to me?

I said, “Baby, a poet is someone who uses words to show their feelings.” She seemed satisfied and went back to coloring. I looked in the rearview mirror at my older granddaughter, Rebecca. She had just turned seventeen and her mother made her come with me on this trip, because she wasn’t trusted to stay home alone. Rebecca had been caught by her stepfather sneaking out with her boyfriend and smoking marijuana. He found them in the park. My daughter, Donna, said that they started to tape Rebecca’s phone calls when they found a pipe in her drawer.

Rebecca had headphones on and her eyes were closed. I wonder what she was thinking about. I tried to remember what I thought about when I was seventeen. Then it occurred to me that I was seventeen when I met Taylor. I was just a young girl, knaive and trustful. He was raw and brazen. He represented everything my parents hated about the youth of that time.

It was the fifties, 1957 to be exact and I had just turned seventeen. One of my girlfriends took me to a soda shop for my birthday. There was a poetry reading going on, and there were saxophone players and drums along with bearded men reading aloud from leather-bound diaries. He was sitting in the corner, half-listening to the speaker and half-reading a Henry Miller book. I think it was Sexus. We got our milkshakes and sat down. I looked over and he was staring at me over the top of his book. It was one of those looks that seems to exert no energy from the one giving it; just a lazy gaze and he turned back to his reading.

He was very plain looking. He had on a flannel shirt and a goatee that was neatly trimmed. He looked like one of the poetry readers, but then again he didn’t. Something set him off, something made him different from the rest. At that time, I wasn’t perceptive enough to recognize it. Behind that casual look, there was the experience of something greater, something deeper that I’m still not sure how to define.

When I got up to go to the bathroom, I walked past the table where he was sitting, and when I came out, he grabbed my wrist and asked me to take a seat. He asked my name and I told him it was Gianna. He asked me what I loved to do most in the world. I told him that I didn’t know. Nobody had ever asked me that kind of question. Usually guys were only interested in talking about themselves. I had never even thought about what I liked to do. Since I was twelve my mother had been grooming me to be the perfect wife. She taught me how to cook and how to treat a man that was courting. My mother was a product of the Gone with the Wind generation, raised in Georgia; she felt that a young woman’s place was at the side of her beau.

He laughed when I didn’t have an answer to his question. I asked him why he was laughing. He said that the question was one that I should never stop asking myself. I didn’t understand this until years later. I was cleaning the bathroom one day and realized that I hated to do it. Then I started thinking that I didn’t know what I loved to do. This made me think of Taylor, and I started crying.

The first time I brought him home, my father really liked him at first, until they spoke. My dad asked him about Russia, and Taylor said that no one could win a war of ideals. My dad was a Marine in World War II. He saw what the Russians did to German women and children and so he took offense at Taylor’s comment. They got into a big dispute that ended in my father telling Taylor he was no longer welcome in his house or with his daughter. The thing is, that I agreed with Taylor and I realized that my parents were wrong about some things.

We had to meet in secret the whole summer. He would read me his work and I would act like I understood everything he said. The truth is that I had no idea at all. I just loved to hear him speak. When he talked, it seemed like there was nothing in the world that was unapproachable. His voice curled around me and put me in some kind of verbal stasis. He had an opinion about everything and it all revolved around poetry. He could discuss the holocaust and make it sound like a beautiful thing that people suffered so bravely and still remained rooted in their beliefs.

Rebecca’s voice jilted me back into the nineties. “Grandma, can we stop at the next rest stop? I have to pee.” We pulled in and unfastened our seat belts; the girls went to the bathroom. I didn’t have to go and sat outside instead. We were approaching Ojai. I could smell the orange trees in the breeze. I thought about all the great people who lived in this valley, Henry Miller, Krishnamurti, Taylor. Except Taylor never became famous. He was a genius, but he was deathly afraid of becoming famous or being in the public eye at all. It was a subject of which he almost never spoke. I think he was afraid of his art becoming something pornographic to himself. He didn’t have any money and I was the only thing in his life that he considered beautiful besides his art. He told me this, but the truth is that I really wasn’t that beautiful. I was just a little nuclear-raised white girl that didn’t know a damn thing about beauty or the real world.

My father followed me one time when I caught the bus out to Ojai to meet Taylor. Taylor had rented a wooden shack from one of his college professors. It wasn’t much, but there was a beautiful view down into the river from the back yard. We would kiss and talk until the Sun went down and it was time for him to take me to the bus stop. Those were the days when a kiss meant something. My father caught me on the way home. My parents sat me down and told me how dangerous subversive thinkers like Taylor were. They talked about drugs and senseless poetry and said they were only worried about my future.

None of their arguments made any ground, so they bribed me. They knew that ever since I was seven, I had wanted to go to the Sarah Lawrence school for girls in New York. The first time that I saw Martha Graham dance, I had wanted to go there. Joseph Campbell taught mythology, and his wife Jean-Erdman Campbell graduated from there and become one of the best dancers in the world.

I didn’t like to dance myself, but I loved to watch the dancers. The truth is that I was afraid to dance. I was afraid to dance for the same reason that Taylor was afraid of becoming famous. I was scared that I would lose the part of myself that I held sacred. To me, the will to dance clashed with my desire to observe beauty.

I was afraid that my dancing would not be as beautiful as the desire to dance itself.

I got my granddaughters back in the car and started down the dirt road that led to the shack and the river. The groves of orange trees started peeking over the horizon and eventually overtook the whole scenery. It was breathtaking. I thought about the last time I saw Taylor. It was the day that I told him I was leaving to go to school on the other coast. He breathed deeply, put his head back and closed his eyes. I could tell that he was trying to fight back tears. I never told him that my parents bribed me to get me away from him, but I’m sure now that he knew it.

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I took my clothes off and gave myself to him. We had never really talked about sex, although I’m sure it was on both of our minds the whole time. It was a beautiful first time for me, but was also very sad. I lied to my husband and told him I was a virgin. Taylor gave something to me and I took something away from him. He trusted me. He opened up to me and I ran away at the first offer of something better.

After we had finished making love, he stood up and looked down at me, then turned and walked away. We didn’t speak a word on the way to the bus stop and the goodbye was half-hearted. He kept silent and I never heard from him again, until years later. It was after both grandchildren had been born and my husband had died. I loved my husband, but it was in a completely different way than I loved Taylor. Taylor touched something inside me that wasn’t put there by my family or my education. He touched something eternal in me, and I feel really stupid using that word but it’s the only one that I can think of to describe it. My husband was a companion, but Taylor was a lover and the only one that I would ever know.

We pulled up to the shack and I looked at my two beautiful granddaughters. Erin was still coloring and sipping her coke through a curly straw. She smiled at me. Rebecca was writing in her journal and listening to her headphones. I told them that I would be right back and they nodded, uninterested.

I saw the headstone in the backyard. Taylor died in 1985. He named me as his sole beneficiary and I was in charge of the care of his body and personal assets. He had purchased this land and lived here until he died. He left me all of his original poems and stories. I was approached by NYU to start a small library dedicated to the preservation of Taylor’s work. It seems that he gained a small cult following during his life and they wanted to keep his work safe and allow it to be printed. I couldn’t object. When I got the boxes of papers, I found a hand written scrap addressed to me. It said, “I never stopped loving you. Taylor.”

I had him buried on the same spot that we made love that day. I discovered that I had found the two things that I loved to do. I loved to observe beauty and I loved to be with him. I thought that having him buried here would be appropriate and what he would have wanted. I could never get up the nerve to come and visit the grave, but I promised myself that I would do it before I died. I owed that much to him.

I ran my fingers over the engravings. “Taylor Dorin (Poet) 1937-1985.” I started to cry. I felt so stupid, like I was seventeen again. I realized that this was the spot that my childhood ended and my life began, and now that I was back here I felt like a child again. It was a complete circle and that made me smile, it was the same smile Taylor had that day in the soda shop when we first met. It was the smile of knowing something through pain, through experience. He was the storm that tore down the bridge between my childhood and becoming a woman. I wiped my eyes and walked back to the car, where my granddaughters were waiting.

©1997 Joshua Minton

LINKS:

• The BGSU Creative Writing Program (my Alma Mater)
  
• Wendell Mayo (the greatest fiction author I studied under)
  
• George Looney (the greatest poet I studied under). Buy this book">this book and this book--you won't be disappointed.

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Fiction Short Story Joshua Minton

When I was a child, I used to create detailed Christmas lists. I can't remember if I addressed them to Santa Clause or not but I'm talking detailed descriptions, catalog pages and pricing columns which had a sum at the bottom. I have never been at want for something at Christmas time (or any other for that matter). I am a consumer to the core of my being.

I was not raised under the Protestant work ethic where it is taught that it is a sin to spend and a nobility to save. I was taught (or learned at an early age) that it was far better to have desire for things than not to. Not to have a desire for the newest best thing still feels like a big step towards the lonely coffin.

And I continue to create lists even in my Methusilian old age. But this year, I thought I'd try something different. I told my wife that I wasn't making a list and that she had carte blanche to buy me what she wanted for Christmas.

This sounds great in theory but the practice has already hit a major snag. She knew I wanted the Shelby Foote Civil War Narrative series from Easton Press. It's the first time the book has been back in print for a number of years and as my loyal readers out there know--I LOVE any book from the Easton Press; they are the finest made in the world.

Well, guess what? My wife gave the brochure to my mother who chose to sit on her hands and wait until last week to order the series. When she went to purchase them online, it said they were sold out. She called the customer service line and it turns out that they decided that they would only do one printing of the book in order to make it more valuable.

Doh!

So my mom gets on E-bay to see if she can find a copy for sale. She found one that was a couple hundred bucks more expensive than the list price and ordered it. But then they were stolen from the guy's shelf and he had to cancel the order. I imagine he found someone else who wanted to pay more and lied to my mother but that's just my cynical side talking.

So, I'm heart broken over losing the opportunity to own these books but life will go on.

We'll just have to see what becomes of my listless Christmas.